The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
by Wibbly Wobbly Weirdo
Summary: "Well, it does seem a waste.""Mr. Kirkland, how i've lived without you all these years i'll never know!" A series of 2!P Hetalia snip-its based on the musical Sweeney Todd. 2!pUSUK, past-2!pUS/1!pHungary. Rated for blood/gore/language.
1. The Worst Pies In London

**Hello, loves! This** **struck me in a flash moment of inspiration and I just had to write it. I'm obviously not going to be doing the whole movie, just little snip-its here and there. I won't be able to update regularly, so it will probably only be when the muse strikes me. My apologies. **

Alfred Jones stalked his way through the grimy and dank streets of London. Rats scattered about his feet as he took long strides, not wanting to waste even a split second of his precious time unnecessarily surrounded by the filthy creatures. He sneered as his mind instantly compared them to the people of the boggy town.

Dim post lamps lit the darkness periodically in the main streets, but were rare in the side streets and back alleys Alfred slunk through. He shifted the bag that was slung over his shoulders and glared at the pitifully wailing beggars he passed. He was on a mission with no desire to get sidetracked.

As the amount of people and beggars began to increase, Alfred knew he was getting close to the main street. Fleet Street. The name rang in a bittersweet tone in his head.

Once he pushed his way, none too gently, passed the crowds; the tall American's gaze fell on a rather run-down looking shop. There it was. His old stomping ground. It was obviously in new hands, judging by the dirty, but brightly colored, curtains hanging in the windows and a hanging sign by the door that read "_ Kirkland's_".

Alfred hesitantly twisted the knob on the door and stepped into the shop. The room wasn't very large and was rather poorly lit. The musty smell of the shop nearly made Alfred gag. As his red eyes swept the room, crossing the booths, tables, and modest kitchen area, they stopped on the only other person in the shop.

The man standing at the island counter was definitely something Alfred had never seen before. His skin was as pale as china with freckles dusting his face. A mop of disheveled strawberry blonde hair sat on his head and a rather depressed expression rested on his face. He wore an obnoxiously pink dress shirt with a sky blue vest. His eyes were turned down to his work, but Alfred could tell they were just as bright as his shirt.

Honestly, the man's appearance made Alfred uncomfortable. As did the large knife he was currently using to slice…something. Alfred slowly began to back out of the shop, hoping to leave before the man noticed his presence. However, a loose floorboard gave a quiet squeak into the otherwise silent shop, immediately causing the pale man to jerk his eyes up to his guest.

Alfred's guess had been right; the man's eyes were a strikingly bright mixture of blue and pink. It was frightening, really.

As soon as their eyes met, the man's face broke into one of the biggest smiles Alfred had ever seen. "A customer!" He exclaimed as he stabbed the knife into the cutting board. His accent confirmed that he was definitely a natural local.

With a speed that completely surprised Alfred, the man, whom he had come to the conclusion was Mr. Kirkland, ran around the counter and gripped onto Alfred's arm. His face was the complete opposite of the one he wore when Alfred first stepped into the shop. And up close, Alfred noticed his rather large eyebrows, wondering how he missed them before.

"Wait! What's your hurry? I apologize, but you gave me a fright! To be honest I thought you were a ghost." Mr. Kirkland rambled on in an excited tone. "Oh, you don't have to leave yet. You've got half a minute, don't you? Go on and sit ya down."

When Alfred didn't budge, gave a strong push on his shoulders, effectively shoving the American into a booth. "SIT!"

Alfred growled in annoyance and fixed the British man with a glare. He didn't really seem to mind though as he made his was quickly back to the kitchen area. "Sorry, it's just that I haven't seen a customer in weeks! You did come in for a pie, didn't you sir?"

Alfred frowned at the question. Oh, the loon sold meat pies. And from the looks of things, not very good ones. Good thing Alfred wasn't the biggest fan of meat. He opened his mouth to tell the man off, but was cut off.

"Do forgive me if I seem a little vague. With no customers, I haven't talked to anyone in a while. People seem to avoid my shop like it has the plague!" said with a light chuckle. He poured a dark colored beverage into a mug and brought it over to the table where Alfred sat. He took a seat across from the American as he slid the mug across the table. "Would you like a drop of ale?"

Alfred took the mug and eyed it nervously. But, after taking a small sip, he deemed it acceptable. smiled as he watched him drink. Soon, he turned his gaze out one of the windows and sighed wistfully. "Mind you, I can hardly blame them."

Alfred followed the man's movements as he got up and walked over to the kitchen. He leaned against one of the counters and frowned as he looked around the room. "Mine are probably the worst pies in London. Ha! That might even be polite."

Alfred bit his tongue. Smart mouthing would not be a good idea at the moment. "Uh…Mr -"

"Ah! You can just call me Oliver, poppet. No need for formalities. I'm no rich aristocrat. Well, I mean no wonder! How could I be with the price of meat these days!" Oliver laughed.

Alfred sat in confusion as Oliver rambled on about some woman down the road who made cats into pies. How on earth had he gotten himself into this mess? All he had wanted to do was see just what had happened to the place, and now he was stuck in a filthy booth, listening to some man he was sure was insane ramble about the meat pie business.

Then again…maybe insanity was what he needed for his revenge.

Alfred's brain started whirring with ideas and plans. Yes, this could work, but only if he played his cards right. Suddenly he noticed Oliver had stopped talking and was sitting across from him again, gazing at him with a wistful look. "Ah, sir." He sighed as he rested his head in the palm of his hand. "Times is hard."

Alfred hummed in agreement and downed the last of his ale. Oliver tilted his head slightly. "I never did ask your name, now did I? How rude of me."

That brought Alfred up short. Obviously, he wasn't very welcome back in London and if he told even this man his real name, it could be the end of everything he had worked for.

Thinking carefully and weighing his words, Alfred spoke after a few moments.

"Al. Allan Jones."

_And he will have his revenge._

**And there you have it! The first installment of this lovely series. I hope you enjoyed it! Next up will be "A Little Priest." Stay tuned!**


	2. A Little Priest

A**h yes, another chapter, another day of work. I've mixed quite a lot into this chapter so I apologize if it's a bit confusing to read. Any matter, have fun!**

Al had no idea when exactly he had lost his mind. Perhaps it was when he was standing on the small street-stage next to that obnoxious Italian man and his small Canadian assistant. Perhaps it was when he had almost gone after that damned judge in the middle of broad daylight. Or, even more likely, perhaps it was when he learned of the destruction of his poor Elizabeta.

No matter when it happened, Al was sure he had gone insane. Obviously not as insane as his British companion, but insane enough to feel absolutely no remorse for the dead Italian laying on the floor. One Mr. Vargas, if he remembered correctly. In fact, the sight of the blood leaving the quickly paling body seemed to give the American a feeling of…glee? Ah, who knows?

All that mattered now was that he had a dead man in his floor and no clue what to do with him. He had beaten the man with a boiling kettle for god sakes. The sound of hurried, but not frantic footsteps up the stairs caused Al's heart to quicken. Police? Already? However, he relaxed a bit when he saw Oliver open the door to the attic room.

"Are you alright, love? I heard something- cor blimey!" Oliver exclaimed as he laid eyes on the gruesome sight. He quickly closed the door behind him, careful not to slam it, and stared.

Al gripped the handle of the cooling kettle, hoping that he wouldn't have to shut Oliver up if he started screaming. However, it seemed as though Oliver was taking the fact that his new companion was now a murderer rather well.

The Brit slowly approached the body and surveyed the scene. "Well," he said without a hint of tremor in his voice. "You could have done that cleaner. Now the blood's going to stain the floor."

Al nearly dropped the kettle, letting out a grunt of confusion. Oliver looked up at him and the wide grin Al had started becoming accustomed to split is face. "Oh come now, poppet. I knew it was only a matter of time before you off-ed someone. What, with the way I had to hold you back from getting Judge Bonnefoy. Oh do stop staring at me like that."

Al flicked his gaze back to the body of as Oliver went about checking for a pulse. A frown replaced his smile as he stood up and crossed his arms. "Drat. He's not quite dead yet. He's simply unconscious."

The two men went to work lifting the body and dumping it into an empty chest.

Oliver quickly checked his clothes to make sure there wasn't a sight of blood and walked back to the door. "Well, I should go tell that young boy downstairs that his master has returned home already. Unless you have a better idea?" He paused and turned a quizative look back.

Al shook his head and looked out the window. "No, let him go."

Oliver smiled again. "I feel rather sorry for the boy. A very polite young man he is. If he comes back after he learns of Vargas' disappearance, I think I should like to keep him." He said as he whisked open the door.

Al sneered lightly after him. "Whatever. Just keep him out of my way."

"Ah-ha! You are too good to me, love!" Oliver crowed as he made his way downstairs.

Al rolled his eyes and walked over to the chest. When he opened it, he noticed the Italian had begun to twitch, showing signs of life. He couldn't have that now could he?

Al expertly flicked open his razor and dragged it down and across the man's throat quickly.

(~)

After young Matt had left, Al came down from the attic room with a fresh shirt and trousers. Oliver smiled at him as he swept the pie shop. "You look nice, love."

Al sneered and sat down in a chair where a mug of ale was already waiting for him on the table. "You don't seem the least bit bothered by this." He said as Oliver put the broom he was using away and sat down across from him.

"Oh I suppose I'm not. Maybe that's just the kind of person I am." Oliver chuckled. His bright eyes shifted their attention back to the staircase. "By the by, what are we going to do about him?"

Al looked into his mug and twisted it around as he answered. "When it gets dark, we'll take it to some secret place and burry it, I guess."

Oliver rested his chin in his hand and hummed. "I suppose we could do that. Not that I think anyone will come here looking for him. Don't think he had any family with him."

As he got up to go back to cleaning, the Brit paused as an idea struck his head. "Seems a downright shame." He muttered as he walked over the kitchen area.

Al nearly spit his drink. "Shame?" He asked with a hint of annoyance. He was sure Oliver hadn't like the stupid man either.

Oliver puffed his cheeks as he thought of a better wording for his sentence. "Well, I mean, it seems like such a…waste." He said as he began to pace the shop. "He has a rather plump frame, well had…no, has."

The American followed his movements, only becoming increasingly more confused as his friend muttered.

"And, you know, business could use a lift. There are debts I desperately need to be rid of."Oliver continued as he paused his pacing. "One could think of it as thrift, as a gift… if you catch my drift." He whispered with a sideways glance at Al.

Al frowned. No, he didn't catch his drift. He was confused and growing irritated at the riddle –like speech.

If Oliver was getting frustrated at the American's thick skull, he showed no sign as he continued his metaphoric rambling. "I mean…with the price of meat what it is, when you get it…if you get it?"

… "Ah!"

Ding. Understanding suddenly hit Al like a boulder. Wow. This man was messed up. But Al had to admit that it was a marvelous idea. A grin spread across his face, almost matching the one Oliver had. "Good, you got it!" Oliver laughed. "Now, think of Mrs. Chernenko's pie shop. Business never better and she uses only cats, which may be good for maybe six or seven at the most. And I'm certain they can't compare as far as taste!"  
Al jumped up from his seat. "Mr. Kirkland, that is charming notion!" He exclaimed as he grabbed the smaller man in a mock waltz position.

"Well it does seem like such a waste." Oliver laughed as he allowed himself to be waltzed around, enjoying himself immensely. His giggling ceased when Al grabbed his face with both his hands, a wicked smile on his face as he spoke. " How I've lived without you all these years, I'll never know!"

"Well, just think. Lot's of gentlemen will soon come in for a shave. Why, now, just think of all them pies!" Oliver's voice steadily grew more and more excited as he spoke, taking a secret pleasure in how close he was to the tall American.

Al released the Englishman's face and stalked over to one of the windows, drawing a curtain back slightly to give a view of the street outside. "Do you hear that sound out there?" He said, not turning around, but expecting an answer.

"Oh, and what is that sound,Mr Jones?" Oliver answered as he nearly skipped to Al's side. He glanced out the window as well, taking in the sight of the bustling crowds.

"Those crunching noises pervading the air!"

"Oh, yes Mr Jones, I hear it all around!" Oliver clasped his hands in front of himself, an insane glint in his eyes. He was enjoying himself far more than he should be, talking about killing people.

Al turned and cupped the Brit's face again, still smirking evilly. "That's man devouring man, my dear."

Oliver's wide grin morphed into one almost matching his companion's as he placed his hands over the larger, tan ones and leaned into the touch. "Well, then who are we to deny that in here?"

They broke apart and set about to different tasks. Al sat at their previously occupied booth and pulled out one of his razors. His red eyes glinted back at him in the reflection of the gleaming blade. "These are desperate times,Mr,Kirkland." He said with feign regret. "Desperate measures are called for."

The two tossed "recipe" ideas back and forth until it was late in the evening. Al had to admit, this would not be as bad as he thought. He would get his revenge and clear the streets of the filth it held at the same time. Oliver was simply an added bonus. He hated to admit it, and he certainly wouldn't out loud, but the strawberry blonde haired man was starting to grow on him.

Eventually, he had to reel the bright-eyed man in before his ideas went into space. Oliver was sitting in a chair, twirling a knife on its tip on the table top as he rambled about how he'd make a brand new recipe for Sheppard's Pie. Al walked up behind him, wrapping one arm around his chest and the other hand gently patted Oliver's cheek. "Do have a little charity towards the world, my pet."

Oliver's cheeks puffed a little in annoyance, but he got over it quickly and felt his heart speed up at the pet name. "Yes, yes. I know, my love." He said with a slight sigh.

Al chuckled and dropped his hand to wrap the other arm around the smaller man, holding him in a loose embrace. "Don't worry about it. We'll take whoever we can get. We'll serve anyone-"

"-And to anyone" Oliver chimed in.

"-At all." Al chuckled.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

(~)

**I apologize so much for how long this took. I lost inspiration about halfway through and only just now scrapped up enough to finish. Thank you for all the follows/faves and reviews!**


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